Without You
by Crittab
Summary: He was a writer. When faced with incredible loneliness, that's all he knew how to do. The story of Mark Cohen following his friend's deaths. Rated T for now, may turn into an M later.


Disclaimer: I don't own Rent or most of the characters in this piece.

**Without You**

"It's too much," she said, dropping the manuscript on her glass desk.

"What do you mean 'it's too much?'" Mark asked, eyeing the woman incredulously.

"It's ridiculous. EVERYONE dies? Really? Come on, Mark, a little over-dramatic, don't you think?"

"Over-dramatic?" Mark asked, repeating her words, trying to make sense of her complaint.

"Yea, I mean, come on. We're supposed to believe everyone in the story dies within a year, and then we're supposed to feel bad for this guy because he A) doesn't have AIDS, and B) he's alive?"

Mark lowered his gaze to his hands, gazing intently at the veins, willing himself not to overreact to her criticism.

"It's more then just being alive and healthy," he muttered, he raised his gaze to meet her's, "he's alone. His friends are gone. No one is there for him anymore." The woman rolled her eyes while nodding.

"Yes, yes, but he's alive! Come on, Mark. Couldn't you just change it a little? Have one of his friends live?" she pushed.

"But they didn't! No one lived, they all died," he said vehemently. She got a little excited.

"Yes, but what if just one of them could live. Maybe Roger, or no... not Roger, Maureen! She can be left with Mark, and she can realize that she made a mistake by leaving him for Joanne in the first place. They get back together, and voila! Happy ending!" Mark shook his head.

"No, no, no! Maureen didn't make a mistake. Maureen loved Joanne, and Joanne was so passionately in love with Maureen. They died. Together. In love!" Mark argued.

"But it's so bland and depressing, Mark. First Mimi dies, Roger is depressed. Then Collin's dies... Roger is still depressed. Then Maureen and Joanne just both happen to die in a car accident, Mark is depressed... then Roger dies, and Mark is still depressed. Dude, its got no meat! There's nothing people can grab onto in this story. It's just one catastrophe after another," she stopped her rant a moment to breathe, and looked up at Mark, "You have write bearing your audience in mind," she said calmly, "people don't want to read a big long sob story. They want to read about someone overcoming their obstacles and making something good of it." Mark swallowed hard against the lump that was growing in his throat. He stood up slowly, taking hold of the manuscript.

"Look, I wish one of his friends had survived. I wish that with everything I have, but they didn't. I'm not going to tell this story the wrong way. I can't. I'm sorry," he said. He turned and left the room swiftly, leaving the woman, his editor, no chance to reply.

Climbing on his bike, Mark peddled furiously away from the building en route to Avenue A, and his large, cold, empty loft.

"How do you document real life when real life's getting more like fiction each day?" he asked himself aloud.

Mark entered the loft, a shiver finding it's way up his spine as he looked around. The touches of Roger were still apparent, even though it had been nearly a year since his death. Mark hadn't been able to clean up his room and get rid of his things. His guitar was in it's case propped up against the wall next to the window. His leather jacket still lay in a pile on his bed, which was still unmade following his final night sleeping there. Mark gazed into the bedroom for a long time, wishing he could talk to Roger. Wishing he could have Roger tell him that the editor was wrong, and he should tell the story as it happened. Wishing he could hear him play one of his songs in the background while he wrote.

But he couldn't have those things. he couldn't have anything. Roger was gone, along with the rest of their friends. He retreated from the bedroom and flopped backward onto the couch, closing his eyes tightly.

Nearly a year had passed, and the pain was just as fresh as it had been on the day that killed his last remaining friend.

_Flashback_

Roger had been getting sicker and sicker as the weeks passed following the accident which had claimed the lives of both Maureen and Joanne. He reasoned with Mark that it was just the flu, and that he would be better soon, but they both knew better. They had seen three of their friends die from AIDS in the past two years, and were both painfully aware of what was really happening to Roger.

Roger sunk down deep into his bedsheets. He was cold, shivering uncontrollably. It reminded him of his withdrawal when he quit heroin, only worse. Withdrawal ended and he was stronger as a result. He knew that when this was over, he wouldn't be stronger. He would be gone, and Mark would be alone.

Mark walked into the apartment toting his bike under one arm, and a tray with two large cups of soup in the other. He dropped the bike by the door and made his way into Roger's room, setting the tray down on his bedside table, and sitting on the side of his bed. Just the top of Roger's head was sticking out from the covers while his weak form was shook relentlessly underneath.

"Roger?" Mark asked, putting a strong, reassuring hand on his shoulder. His friend peaked out from the covers, his brow covered in a cold sweat. He didn't say anything, just offered a furrowed brow in recognition of his presence and turned back around. "I brought you some soup," he offered, "can you sit up?"

It was a moment before any response came from Roger at all, but he eventually pulled himself up to a seated position, mentally forcing his body to stop shaking for the most part. His hands were still quivering, Mark held the cup of soup and put some on a spoon, offering it to Roger. He took it, ashamed of his own inability to fend for himself.

"Thanks," he whispered, his voice hoarse. Mark nodded and offered him another spoonful without a word.

After a few moments of silence Roger rejected the remainder of the meal, as he launched into a coughing fit. Mark felt helpless. He set down the soup and opted to put a steadying hand on his friends shoulder while he rode out the painful attack.

"You ate something," Mark commented, "that's progress." His optimism made Roger frown. He shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he said softly in his hoarse tone. Mark looked at him confusedly.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for," he said. Roger dropped his gaze to his hands.

"You said once that you avoided living because you were the only one of us to survive," he said softly. Mark dropped his gaze to his hands, fighting back a barrage of tears. "I didn't understand then, Mark. But I understand now." he stopped a moment, breathing deeply, the task of speaking becoming a difficult one.  
"I'm so sorry I'm leaving you alone," he finished. Mark returned his gaze to Roger's, tears slipping from his eyes.

"It's not over yet," he said cautiously. Roger shook his head.

"I'm so tired," he said softly.

"Lay down, have a rest," Mark begged. Roger shook his head, a tear escaping his hazel eye.

"Stay here with me," he requested as he laid back down. Mark nodded and pulled his covers up to his neck.

"I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere," he promised.

Roger closed his eyes, unable to keep them open any longer. Mark listened to his laboured breathing for several hours, staying true to his promise not to leave his side.

Somewhere along the line, Mark had fallen asleep, hunched over on the bed next to his friend. He awoke to see that all of the light from outside had gone, and it was now the middle of the night. He didn't know how long he had slept, but he was sure it was time to wake Roger up and try to have him eat some more.

He shook Roger lightly. Then a little firmer. Then with urgency. He shook him until his arms hurt from shaking, and he collapsed over his body, tears streaming,  
sobs wracking his slim frame.

Roger was gone. Mark was alone. No one would be there to help him get through the death of his final friend. No one.

_Present_

Mark awoke with a start. Night had fallen over the loft, and it was dark. He found himself covered in sweat after another fitful dream, reliving the most painful moment in his life. He glanced through the dark at Roger's room. He still couldn't touch it. He couldn't change a thing. It was Roger's space.

He pulled himself off the couch and over to the kitchen where he proceeded to make coffee. While waiting for the brew, he turned on his answering machine, willing there to be a message from someone. Anyone.

"Speak!" came the familiar tone, still using the voices of he and his former best friend.

"Mark, dear, I was just calling to check up on you," came the familiar, irritating voice of his mother, "you've been a mess all year. We want you to come home and see us. We want to be there for you, Marky. We need to be there for you." her voice was tenser than usual, but Mark couldn't bring himself to call back. His parents had never approved of his choice of lifestyle or friends. He felt they almost seemed relieved when the last of his clan had passed, expecting it to set him free, or something equally ridiculous. He thought back to the day of Roger's funeral.

_Flashback_

The cemetery was empty except for Mark, Benny, and the Priest. Benny still wasn't on good terms with Mark, but somehow had managed to be there for every single funeral in the past year.

The Priest walked away from the pair of them as they stood somberly around the fresh grave.

"What now?" Benny asked. Mark shrugged.

"I don't really know," he said truthfully. He didn't know what would happen now. He didn't know who he was anymore. For so long he had defined himself by his friends, and was now friendless.

"You know my door is always open, Mark," Benny offered, "Whether you hate me or not, I'm still here for you." Mark shot Benny a cold glare.

"You put us through so much crap," he said with venom, "Roger would be disgusted to know you're here." Benny sighed deeply. He hadn't expected Mark to be so mad at him after all this time. He shook his head and retreated.

"Regardless. The offer still stands," he said, walking away. Mark briefly took notice that Benny had paid for the funeral, but still couldn't find it in his heart to forgive him. He was the reason they had been without heat when Mimi, Collins, and Roger were all dying from AIDS. He knew, yet he did nothing. No, he couldn't forgive him. Not now, not ever. He promised himself, Roger, and all of their friends that he would never forgive him. If there was one thing he could possibly do for them, it was to honour that.

The crisp February air stung the his eyes, but he didn't care. He sat down next to Roger's grave and breathed deeply. Looking to his left was the stone of Mimi,  
a few over were Angel and Collins. In the other direction were Maureen and Joanne. Near the end of the row was April. Everyone was gone. He was totally alone,  
and accutely aware of that fact. He didn't know what to do, or where to go from here.

He sat amongst those graves for hours until nightfall, unable to make his legs move. He was weak and exhausted.

Finally, well after darkness had overtaken the cemetery, he raised from the cold, hard ground, and drug himself home to his empty loft.

When he got home, he tried to sleep. Tried desperately to make this painful day end, but he couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, images of his friends assaulted his thoughts. He pulled out of bed and trudged into the living area, sitting sadly on the couch.

What could he do? How could he overcome his extreme and painful loneliness?

The phone rang.

He contemplated letting it ring, but he needed to hear someones voice. It didn't matter whose.

"Hello," he said in a low, hoarse voice.

"Mark, darling, it's mom," came the voice on the other end. He sighed deeply, immediately regretting his decision to answer.

'Hi," he said softly.

"Oh, darling, you sound so sad," she said, using her incredible knack for pointing out the obvious. He shrugged to himself.

"I am." she sighed heavily on the other end.

"Mark, you can't just sit around feeling sorry for yourself. You need to do something," she pushed. He rolled his eyes.

"I don't want to do anything."

"Why not? Why would you rather just sit around like a schlump? You need to distract yourself, sweetheart." He shook his head, angry with her for not understanding.

"Mom," he said with a warning tone in his voice, "All of my friends are dead. I don't feel like going out and making a night of it."

"So what are you going to do? Sit around? Get depressed? You can't dwell honey. You just can't," she said. He knew in his head that she had the best intentions,  
but he was hurting. He couldn't stand to listen to her preach tonight.

"I have to go mom. I just can't talk about it right now," he said. He hung up before she could respond.

Screening calls was apparently a necessary precaution.

He walked back to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. Sitting at the table, he glanced over and saw his notepad on the corner, untouched for several weeks. He looked at it for a long moment, not really sure why he was suddenly drawn to it.

He set down his coffee cup and reach over, grabbing the notepad and a pen. Without thought, he began to write. His feelings spilled over onto the pages as he told the story.

_Present_

Mark sighed deeply and glanced down at the table where his manuscript now lay. It was 200 pages long. 200 pages of emotion, pain, death, and friendship.

"It's not much, but it took all year," he whispered to himself.

He sat down at the table and grabbed hold of the manuscript. She wanted him to change it. She wanted to change what happened to him and to his friends. So did he,  
but he couldn't. The story was accurate, and his friends deserved accuracy. If his current editor didn't like it, he knew how to find someone who would.

He dropped the stack of papers back down on the table, turned off the coffee pot, and went to bed. He wasn't going to let his story fall through the cracks. The story of his friends, his story, would be told.

_A/N: There may be more coming. I'm contemplating actually writing his novel and describing the rest of the story, but I'm not really sure if I want to do that or leave it up to the imagination. Let me know what you think._


End file.
